The Distant Blade
The rain had not ceased for three days, turning the cobblestones of Whitechapel into a slick, weeping mirror that reflected the gaslight in fractured, trembling shards. You stand at the threshold of the clinic, your coat heavy with the damp, your breath pluming in the cold air that bites at your lungs. Inside, the air is thick, suffocating, heavy with the scent of boiled linseed oil, stale...
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